Sorry about the table
by aliciaofwonderland
Summary: Sherlock's innocent curiosity in a moment of boredom develops into something more. Based on the rating, genre and story length, you are invited to deduce what that might be.


Sherlock Holmes was bored and alone, which as history would suggest, is a rare and unpleasant combination. After having destroyed a new kitchen knife by whittling leaves into the side of the table, the detective arose to wander about the flat, searching through cupboards, for something, anything to keep himself occupied even for a moment. He needed people. People were generally unpleasant, of course, with their ignorance, dullness, and general smelliness, not to mention an endless emotional void to filled by pleasant chatter and polite questions. People were, however, the ultimate puzzles. It is not enough to put together the simple facts of a life, such as the number of pets they have, what they had for lunch and when they got their last haircut, but to piece together a soul was the ultimate goal.

Sherlock picked up the phone and called for a pizza. He had no intention of eating it, but whoever delivered it might be a source of distraction. He reclined on the sofa and began to focus on John, familiar, understandable John. _Ex-army doctor, rank of captain, showers at 6:30 am when time permits, current laptop password is h4rr13t, the name of his sister, five girlfriends in the last six months, all unfathomably boring, packed a tuna fish sandwich for lunch_. Damn. Forget to tell him that I switched the pepper in the red pepper mill with finely ground floor sweepings to see if unwanted company (Mycroft) will notice on next visit. What else? _Faithful, definite childhood fear of exclusion, inability to connect with or maintain relationships with women, possible latent homosexual tendencies, very much in awe of me, and will only throw a punch out of deep emotional frustration, possible anxiety disorder, likely PTSD when linked with military history, but more likely general anxiety disorder. _

The doorbell rang, shocking Holmes out of his meditation.

When John returned home a 4pm, he found his flat mate sitting on the sofa opposite a sloppy man in his early twenties sobbing into a napkin. John pulled his friend into the kitchen.

What the hell just happened? I thought you didn't take those boring emotional cases?

Well I don't, John. This isn't a case.

What exactly is this?

This is a 23 year old man who delivers pizza for a living, lives in mummy's house, has no future plans, recently went on a skiing vacation courtesy of the family, failed out of secondary school, and the best he can hope for now is driving a lorry for a living. He also fears he may have contracted yellow fever from a Brazilian prostitute.

You go that from one look? Are you on something?

Not so far. It appears that getting a grown man to cry over his emotional problems is as simple as asking the right questions. I think I'm done though. Get rid of him. I no longer care to hear the story of Sir Francis, his late cat.

I can't just get rid of him, Sherlock. He is clearly going through something.

I suppose you could talk to him.

…. Give me a minute.

As the man was unceremoniously banished, John settled down to a dinner of cold pizza. Surprisingly, Sherlock partook of the fare.

I thought you didn't eat.

I certainly eat. It's all part of necessary body function. Fuel for the transport and such. I rarely eat when I need when I'm on a case unless it is absolutely necessary. I can't afford to waste any blood for digestion that should be reserved for brain function.

So, this must mean you're bored. Should I ask what you broke this time?

Only the hopes, dreams and soul of a delivery man, and the kitchen table has been decorated. On an unrelated note, I think you might wish to invest in a new set of kitchen knives. These ones mysteriously dulled.

John declined to reply. He switched on the telly to the news. If Sherlock knew he had been watching Here Comes Honey Boo Boo only a day previously, he would have certainly been evicted. The present story was an attempted rape in a poor district of London, resulting in one death (the perpetrator). Sherlock listened to the facts of the case half-heartedly. Watson observed that he was clearly not paying attention.

John?

Yes?

What's sex like?

Are you joking?

Certainly not. I simply wish to know if it worth dying for, as this gentleman so kindly chose to. Besides, it is a necessary part of human nature.

So Mycroft was right. You're a virgin.

I really don't see why everyone is fixated on this. No John, I have not had sexual intercourse. Please explain the phenomenon.

Well, Sherlock, when two people love each other very much... Sorry, I feel like I'm trying to tell a child where babies come from.

As a doctor, I certainly hope you know how that works.

Look, Sherlock, I really don't want to have this conversation with you.

The fact that you find me sexually attractive is irrelevant here.

I never said-

You didn't have to. The dilated pupils, elevated heart rate, shallow breathing. I simply wish to gain a better understanding of sex.

It feels really good, when it's good. When it's bad a peanut butter and jam sandwich is better.

Details, John. That doesn't help.

It's a feeling, not a set of words. I don't expect you to understand.

Fine. If you cannot explain it, show me.

Did you just ask me to, umm, what?

Please have sex with me.

I thought you would never ask.

John leapt up from where he was sitting and kissed Sherlock full on the mouth. Sherlock reciprocated lazily, and somewhat awkwardly. Their tongues mashed together as John began undoing the buttons of Sherlock's shirt. He was feeling very enthusiastic, but noticed that Sherlock had not made a single noise.

You alright?

Fine, John. I'm just not accustomed to much contact with others.

I mean, are you even enjoying this?

I suppose I am. I like that you seem very happy, but I have no desire to make raucous noises without genuine feeling. I sense that would insult you more than anything.

Oh.

Oh?

John resumed kissing. He soon had Sherlock's shirt on the couch beside them, and pulled his own horrid jumper over his head. Soon John was down to his red pants, and Sherlock was completely starkers. His pale skin would have made him look sickly if it weren't for the vitality in those eyes. John was sure that Sherlock's eyes were at least eighty years older than the rest of him, but poured out wisdom and power. John placed his mouth around his friend's length, marveling that Sherlock was capable of being hard under his touch. John felt his infamous red pants becoming tighter with every second as he stretched against them. Sherlock's breathing picked up. Instead of the usual moans or calling a lover's name, Sherlock breathed deeply and slowly. As John swirled his tongue around the tip of Sherlock's cock, the detective made a deep noise like the growl of a lion. The red pants were shed, and John prepared to enter Sherlock, who wasn't exactly a giving lover.

Sherlock, I'm going to be in you, ok? Just tell me if you need to stop.

Sherlock provided only a grunt as a reaction. John forced himself inside with more force than originally intended, and Sherlock grunted with pain as a result. Began to move in and out, calling Sherlock's name, and miraculously, his own name was shouted into the hot air by the wonderful voice of his flatmate. When it was over, both lay there, tired and spent. John looked over at Sherlock.

That was incredible in an odd sort of way. We should do that again tomorrow.

No.

Sherlock, you're kidding! You didn't enjoy that?

I am simply saying no to tomorrow. However, I suppose I have time for you now.

John smiled as his… was there a name for this? Of course there was. John smiled at his Sherlock, and was pleasantly surprised when the aforementioned Sherlock pulled him into an embrace.


End file.
